


Pearls and Strawberry Leaves

by Apfelessig



Series: Rosvolio 1900s AU [2]
Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: 1900s AU, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, lovely lazy Saturday morning read, what-ifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-25 06:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12525544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig
Summary: After a twist of fate brought them together at a train station inIn Another Light, Benvolio and Rosaline try to find their way into each others' confidence in a changing world in 1900s Italy.---A continuation of the 1900s Verona AU started as a collab and continued solo. A slow, comfy story of our favourite outcasts falling in love without the pressures of revenge and bloody retribution.





	1. Chapter 1

It was hopeless.

Never mind appropriate topics of conversation, he couldn't even pin down the proper form of address. 

“To the Lady Rosaline” was stuffy, but it devolved from there. “My Lady Rosaline” was highly presumptuous, just “Rosaline” bordering on cheeky, and as for “my dearest” _anything_ , that was a distant fantasy at best. 

He’d managed to find her name in the peerage—that had been innocuous enough, rifling through his uncle’s library. The man was obsessed with nobility, and, in the true manner of one in single-minded pursuit, likely had more volumes and charts on the subject than the oldest of ducal families in the country. She was the eldest daughter of the second son of the former Conte Capulet, and by naming convention, eldest niece of the current Conte Capulet. What that meant about the world she lived in day-to-day was beyond him; with him a lowly disenfranchised heir of an upstart _signore_ , she decidedly outranked him.

All of which didn’t solve the problem of how to begin this letter. After all, it wasn’t the cousin of a _contessa_ he’d met at the train station, it was “Rosaline Capulet”, and “Rosaline”, right before she’d embarked the train. Were he to encounter her again in person, he’d chance a _signorina Capulet_ with a dashing smile. He’d had no luck running into her, however, and was now resorting to this much more unfamiliar method of courting.

After another few agonizing minutes, he wrote _Dear_ and left the line blank so he could move on.

_I hope this letter doesn’t alarm you with the unfamiliar return address. It is I, Benvolio, writing. The artist. We met at the train station. You were travelling to Mantua._

Benvolio stared in horror at the page and ploughed on.

_I trust your stay with your sister was a pleasant one._

_My travels to Venice were fruitful. I obtained entry into the workshop of Leonardo Bistolfi, a Genoan sculptor. He’s launched a magazine about decorative arts, «L'arte decorativa moderna», and I was fortunate enough to obtain a copy. Although he himself could not receive me at his workshop, his colleague Davida Calandra was there._

_They’re preparing for the Art Biennale in Venice and are hoping to introduce a new appreciation of beauty and functionality through the «decorative arts». Personally, I can understand the lack of enthusiasm in the upper classes to this movement, it is, after all, a significant deviation of the “art for art’s sake” that is a hallmark of the privilege associated with Italian nobility, and no lord has ever embraced making beauty accessible and affordable for the general masses—_

Argh, argh, argh. He steadied his breathing and continued.

_—though I doubt that will interest you as it does me. Let us say that I enjoyed my trip to Venice and hope I can escape my duties here soon to visit again._

He paused then ventured, _It is possible that I found more immediate enjoyment in our brief encounter on the platform._

Benvolio looked up from the page, then smiled. Nothing for it. At worst he would never hear from her again, which was no change from his current position.

_The fire with which you spoke inspired me, and I found myself returning to our conversation frequently throughout my trip. It is a cruel world that takes such strength of spirit and forces it into an unnatural servitude to an outdated system of pomp and domestic ritual. Familial duties, especially those in nobility, are a tedious, freedom-curbing affair. One takes heart that in the larger cities most titles are looked upon with an increasingly dismissive disposition._

As much as it pains my uncle, he smiled to himself. Emboldened, he moved, finally, to the real purpose of his letter.

_If you would allow it, I would very much like to see you again. We can discuss the follies of nobility and the inevitable rise of artists and modern women in these changing times. It can be anywhere you wish, under chaperone, if necessary, although I can’t imagine what our families would make of it._

_I wish you the best of health,  
And grace of God,_

_Benvolio Montague_

There. Done. He quickly blotted the ink and folded the letter into an envelope before his courage failed him.

 

He delivered the letter to the post office himself. A fake return address would protect Rosaline from defending a letter from a Montague, but if servants were to gossip about him writing to a Capulet, no amount of reasoning or on-the-spot fabrications would save him. 

He stepped out from the post office into the sun and took a few moments to lean against the wall. A calmness suffused his skin and sank into his muscles. Finally, he could take the deep breath that had been missing for weeks.

He was stepping over a line, undoubtedly, writing to her. Social etiquette had been as much a part of his upbringing as the numbers and theories required to govern an estate, but he didn’t care. Until now, his rebellion had been secret, confined to the charcoal sketches he hid between his books, and the sculpting tools he stashed behind the stables. With this letter, a small part of him had been allowed to exist outside of his family, for safekeeping. The idea anchored him.

The feeling lasted until he reached the end of the street, where he was struck by the image of himself, agonizing over a respectful form of address, only to casually mail a sealed letter—addressed to his social enemy, a firmly proud and independent woman who, on top of it all, outranked him severely—that began, simply, _Dear_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> par. 2 Thanks to [this fantastic resource](http://www.regalis.com/nobletitles.htm) on Italian titles of nobility by Louis A. M. Mendola. Click through to find out more about counts, barons and signores. (Apropos of nothing, this is a [really delightful interview](http://www.bestofsicily.com/mag/art440.htm) with the author).
> 
> par. 8 The sculptor Leonardo Bistolfi founded the magazine [L'arte decorativa moderna](http://arts-search.com/review/larte-decorativa-moderna.html) in 1902 along with the sculptors Davida Calendra and Giorgio Ceragioli, and painters Enrico Reycend and Enrico Thovez. I can’t find proof that any of the sculptors had a permanent workspace in Venice in the early 1900s, but I’m going to relax my steel grip on Total Accuracy for a minute there.
> 
> Par. 9 The [decorative arts](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decorative_arts) highlighted beauty and craftsmanship in items that had a functional purpose beyond “just being seen”, e.g. an ornate tea pot or pretty wallpaper as opposed to a free-standing sculpture or a painting.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I see you leaving silent kudos! Let me hear from you, it brightens my day so much!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!

She was stunned.

Luckily there was no one to see, holed up in her servant’s quarters as she was. Livia would have marked it down as a calendar event.

The letter shook in Rosaline’s hands. Her eyes scanned over it again, alighting on “fire”, “spirit”, “inevitable” and then trailing up again to rest on “Dear”. Pushing herself to her feet, she paced the small room absently, then rejoined the candle and the letter resting on her narrow worktable. 

Was he mad? He must be. She held the envelope against the flickering light and read the whimsical return address.

Friar Lawrence  
℅ San Zeno Benedictine Abbey  
Piazza San Zeno  
Verona

That alone had caused comment from Peter. Her uncle’s manservant had given her the letter at breakfast, while the other maids bustled upstairs. He’d held it like a stick of dynamite, all the more mysterious for lacking a fizzing fuse. 

“To your ladyship,” he’d said, and for a moment Rosaline had recoiled. The look on his face convinced her that he hadn’t meant it cruelly. He was bemused, it seemed, and as she took the letter, she could see why. It was indeed addressed to 'Lady Rosaline Capulet'. 

“From the abbey,” he’d added. He'd lingered by her shoulder as if the answers to his unspoken questions were only one slight discomfort away. As if Rosaline would bow so easily, even if he did wield authority over her. They both knew it was more complicated than that. 

"Thank you, Peter," had been her only response as she'd tucked it into her apron. A polite curtsy, and she'd left to open windows and fold linens with the other maids.

All day, the letter had burned a hole in her gown. Now, finally alone, she almost wished she’d never opened it. 

With her thoughts scattered in shock, instinct took centre stage. The _nerve!_ To send a letter with such an _impudent_ form of address to her house, her actual house! As if it were the most natural thing in the world that she should want to hear from him again. Hah! As if she’d been sighing in her sleep at the very thought. The _cheek!_ Who exactly did he think she was?

Well, a lady, for one, and that only deepened her irritation. Clenching her teeth against where that train of thought led, she reread the letter to find something else to criticize. 

“ ‘The artist, we met at the train station,’ has he never written a letter before? Honestly. And what is this—this art tangent, as if that would hold any… Hah, yes, ‘it is possible I derived more enjoyment’, very flattering.”

She finished the rest of the letter in silence. Her fingers brushed his final plea. The ink seemed to sear through her.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, getting to her feet and pacing the room again. She was deeply off-balance, but couldn’t place why. Of course, the casual arrogance in sending something so—so _charming_ was something in and of itself, but there was more lurking behind it. She stopped and crossed her arms as she recognized it.

She was disappointed. 

Truth be told, she’d returned to their conversation frequently herself. She’d almost told Livia about it, too. Better that she hadn’t. Happy as she was in her new domesticity, Livia would have peppered her with a hundred questions that Rosaline herself wasn’t sure she wanted answers to.

But it had been nice, returning to the fantasy throughout her days, alighting on details that rested warmly in her mind: the way the hat turned in his hands, how his thumb brushed across the felt... It had been a welcome escape from linens and dust.

And now it was ruined. Lady Rosaline Capulet, the envelope said. Oh yes, the letter and the man oozed with his disdain of the duties and obligations noble titles placed upon their incumbents, but it was easy to rebel from the comfort of a cushioned seat. She very much doubted his enthusiasm for her _fire_ would last if he knew just how low her station was. 

But the worse part was that Rosaline couldn’t allow herself to hope that his actions would match his zeal. She simply couldn’t afford to. Her situation was a precarious as it could get, in a way that a male heir of a new money family couldn’t begin to understand. Her only chance at freedom rested on her wits and a spotless reputation. It would take a miracle for her aunt not to willfully ruin her, but the barest whiff of a scandal would achieve the same.

With his letter, he had achieved two things: he had captured her imagination, and proven himself to be unpardonably reckless.

And now…

The only thing more unthinkable than the letter being found was destroying it. She’d keep it in her pillow case at night and in her apron by day. Her vigilance would keep it safe, and in return, it would keep her warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought this was unrealistic and mostly done out of contrivance, but apparently, it wasn't unheard of for family members to be taken in as servants. (Click [here](http://www.people.uniurb.it/RaffaellaSarti/3.%20Raffaella%20Sarti-Who%20are%20servants-Proceedings%20of%20the%20Servant%20Project-Final%20Version.pdf), pg. 4, par. 2 for more info). Turns out there even legal proceedings associated with this, withheld wages, that sort of thing. The word "family" used to mean the servants who worked for an employer, even if they weren't related (pg. 3 par.2). Interesting...
> 
> My sweet, silent kudos-leavers! <3 Consider leaving a comment, it would be a beacon during the dark month of Nanowrimo...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't tell me Mercutio wouldn't be a pain in the backside to hang out with.
> 
> A/N: Mercutio's graphic stories may be uncomfortable for some. Please consider the people (men, women, other) in his stories as willing and enthusiastic participants, as I intended when I wrote it. Mercutio himself is better described as a gigolo than a predator.

"—told her I hadn't seen a better pair and she says, "watch this" and she pulls out, I shit you not, these two gigantic—"

Benvolio tuned in and out of Mercutio's rambling with practiced ease. He stumbled slightly as Mercutio clapped him on the back and said "Unbelievable, you animal," as he paused to draw breath.

"Surely her family must have caught you by now?" Romeo asked, equal parts awed and shocked at today's tales. 

"Delightfully, no, she's got the thighs of a gazelle, she held me there for at least—"

Benvolio sighed deeply, eyes drifting up the facades of the buildings. It was predictable, like a post card. The metal wrought banisters, the strings of laundry, the patched trellises reaching from balconies to roofs, the unruly tangle of flowerpots in straw baskets... the items ticked off his internal list and fell flat on his senses.

"You dog," he said, absentmindedly, reaching out without looking to squeeze his friend's shoulder. 

"I tell you, she's clean sucked me dry for—"

It had been three weeks since he'd sent the letter. He'd allowed two days for delivery, one to get over the shock, another day to compose either a seething tongue-lashing or a chilly reprimand, another two days for delivery... Nothing. No letters had graced his breakfast table, nor had a host of Capulets arrived at his uncle's estate demanding redress for Rosaline's insulted honour.

Barring a misdelivery on part of the courier—the horrors of what that could set into motion were too harrowing to indulge—it remained that she had received the letter and either deemed it beneath her station to answer, or below her rationality to pursue.

Each day that passed without a response was a weight. His uncle had loudly put down his above average disinterest to a dip in sexual performance, which no one found amusing, not even the servants. He was sleeping less, and looked it.

"One of these days your reckless philandering will get you shot," Benvolio said, on cue. Mercutio shrugged.

"I will have lived a hole-some life," he said, grinning. "That reminds me, I must tell you about Thursday last—"

They turned the corner into the piazza San Zeno. It was market day, and the bustle of the stalls and mid-morning crowds helped drown out the rest of whatever sordid story was sending Romeo into fits. They walked past a butcher's stall ("Just like this leg of ham, in fact") when he saw her. Rosaline Capulet, dressed severely in a brown coat, softened by a scarf in the lilac blues of her house, giving a wheel of cheese a scrutinizing look.

" _Cazzo_ ," Benvolio said, dry-mouthed. 

"That's exactly what she said," Mercutio said, turning to his friend with some amusement. "That's why it was so lucky I'd brought the oil—"

"Benvolio, what's struck you?" Romeo asked, peering at his friend. "I haven't seen you this attentive all month."

"She's here."

Mercutio, on whom it dawned that he was no longer the centre of attention, craned his neck to look around him.

"Who?"

Benvolio didn't move. His eyes were fixed on her. Had she been that tall the last time he'd seen her? She stood with such self-assured grace, strong in the knowledge that no will could be stronger than hers. If she turned, she would see him. The crowd between them was thinning, she could only hesitate about a cheese purchase for so long—

"Are you ill?" Romeo asked, concerned.

"Queen Mab rides over him," Mercutio said, flicking Benvolio between the eyebrows. "He's dreaming of being witty."

Benvolio snapped to and pushed Mercutio's arm out of the way. He moved past his friends quickly and turned back with an admonishing finger.

"Do not follow me."

Leaving Mercutio's smugness and Romeo's hurt expression behind him, he crossed to stand behind Rosaline as she approached a grocer's cart. For a moment he relished in the vague disinterest of her face as she perused the merchandise.

"My Lady," he said.

The speed with which she turned and shrank back drove a splinter into him. Her whole being was coiled and tense.

"You," she said. After a moment, she seemed to recover her poise and held her basket angled behind her. Her eyes scanned the other marketgoers then blazed hard into his. "I was not expecting this."

"Me neither," Benvolio said. His face fell into solemn earnest. He couldn't bear the thought of her disapproval, but reparations had to be made. "I owe you an apology for the letter. It was reckless and presumptive of me."

"I have certainly never received one like it," Rosaline said, catching a curious look from the grocer.

"A woman of your station has every right—"

"Perhaps this conversation deserves a more private venue," she said shortly, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him away from the stalls. Benvolio strode quickly alongside her and ducked into a shaded archway at the mouth of an alley.

"I've offended you," he began. "It was not my intention. Your entry in the Annuario wasn't particularly clear on the proper form of address—"

At the mention of the grand heraldic directory, Rosaline looked away. "I imagine it didn't advise on the endearment you _did_ choose," she snapped, regripping the basket behind her skirts.

"The downfall of improper proofreading," Benvolio said. "Is that heavy for you? I can carry it."

Rosaline looked up with a woundedness he couldn't comprehend. She matter-of-factly shifted her weight and cradled the basket on her hip. The appearance was so much like that of the washerwomen Benvolio saw in the streets every day that a fond smile played about his lips.

"You're playing the servant, I see," he joked. "Is this how you intend to 'maintain social respectability in accordance with your station'?"

Rosaline's expression was a mute roar, and she turned on her heel to march away.

"I shouldn't have said that! Please, Rosaline!"

At her name, she stopped and looked back with some measure of exasperation. "Is there anything you intend to say that won't insult me?"

_If God will grant me a moment's blessing, I certainly hope so._

"I've not played the gentleman. Consider it the eccentricity of the covert artist." His disarming smile was unreciprocated and he plumbed for honesty. "But I would truly like the chance to speak with you again. On that, I am sincere. It happens that, since our meeting at the train station, there's not much else that brightens my day than the thought of having that chance."

A divine instinct told him to wait as Rosaline considered him in silence.

"My uncle does not give me the freedom of movement you enjoy," she said, finally. "If I were even seen with a strange man in the streets, the consequences would be severe."

Benvolio couldn't help himself. "That's not a no, Capulet."

This time the silence was shorter. "Even if I were interested, how do you propose such a meeting happening without our families' knowledge?"

"The abbey," Benvolio said, energized. "Your uncle cannot begrudge you evening prayers. I'll meet you in the pews at six."

"Seven," Rosaline countered. "And I won't have long."

"I don't want to make things difficult for you," Benvolio assured her. She gave him a stony look, then drew herself up.

"Settled then. In the abbey, two days hence."

"Seven," Benvolio smiled. She gave him a curt nod, then walked past him to the grocer's stalls, from where she was soon lost in the marketplace. Benvolio found his friends waiting at the edge of the plaza, chewing on sausages and buns. Mercutio raised a beer.

"Back from some back alley lovin'! Who knew you had it in you?"

Benvolio snatched the beer from his hand. "As always, you talk nonsense. Mistaken identity, that's all."

"She seemed in an awful hurry to get to know you better," Romeo remarked.

Benvolio said nothing and drank from the beer.

"She looked familiar—" Romeo began, but Benvolio cut off his words by slinging his arm around his shoulders.

"They all look the same," he said. "Just ask Mercutio."

"There was this one time I will never forget," Mercutio said, as they sauntered down another street. "Twins. Two pairs! It was down by the river..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Cazzo_ — Shit (lit. dick).
> 
>  _Annuario_ — in reference to the _Annuario della Nobiltà Italiana_ , founded in 1878 by Giovanni Battista Crollalanza. Also known as the "red book", it is the most complete heraldic directory of nobility in united Italy, and has versions as recent as 2014. Info taken from [here](http://www.regalis.com/nobletitles.htm#books).
> 
> My silent-kudos leavers, consider leaving a comment as the days get shorter! Think of it as an early Christmas gift <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I listened to on repeat while writing this is "La Lune" by Billie Marten.  
> A/N: Next chapter will take a little longer, I will be on holiday for a week. See you then!

Uncle Silvestro had accepted the request to observe evening prayers with little resistance. It would have felt more dishonest if Rosaline didn't take time most Sundays to pray for the family and blessings she still had. If the cold _Conte_ Capulet ever mourned his brother's family, or asked for grace for his own, it was a private affair. Such feelings were not spoken of in the Capulet house.

Rosaline walked through the San Zeno basilica slowly, noting with some relief the mostly empty pews. A lone friar was carrying books, but he soon disappeared behind a door, fading into the fabric of the abbey like one thread of many. She walked past the pews for the churchgoers, and ascended the staircase to the ornate choir level, which extended to the east end of the abbey. There the central apse reveled in splendor fit to receive the divine presence of the rising sun. 

The southern transept was a small side hall, branching off of the choir like a cross. The Capulet family had pledged and funded a bye-altar that loomed ominously above a rack of votive candles. Capulet blood ran as old as the construction of the city, and the altar was intended to connect the family with the sacred grace it had almost certainly worn out.

Rosaline lowered herself to the padded bench and lit a candle. She had time, and the solitude had put her in a reflective mood. Halfway through her prayers, she heard respectful footsteps on the stairs. The figure approached silently, paused, then sank onto the padded bench and lit a candle in silence. 

After another minute, Rosaline glanced to her right. 

"You're not saying anything."

"You were praying in earnest. I didn't want to interrupt."

"I was."

Neither moved nor spoke.

"I come here for my mother and father," Benvolio said softly. Rosaline looked at him then. His eyes were low, his usual brightness subdued in the dim light. "I was very young," he added. "I don't remember much."

"I remember everything," Rosaline admitted. It was Benvolio's turn to look up. "My parents too," she said, holding his gaze briefly. "A few years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. For yours."

There was a strained silence. Rosaline prayed under her breath he would not ask.

"How?" His voice was queer.

"Bad business dealings," Rosaline said. "Or so we were told. My mother died of grief not long after."

The vast emptiness of the basilica sucked away the words threatening to form between them. Words like _allegations_ and _subversion_ and _plausible deniability_. Not all estates had survived modernisation at the turn of the century, and while many had collapsed from their own greed and shortcomings, those that had thrived were looked upon with equal parts admiration and suspicion.

Benvolio lit another votive candle and didn't pursue the topic further.

"Coming here at night is the only time feels quiet," he remarked instead. "Not even during service is it this peaceful."

"It's easier to feel comforted in the dark," Rosaline agreed. 

Benvolio hesitated. "That's a strange thing to say, but you're right. Perhaps because it's easier to believe in things you want to be true."

"I've always thought it's because you're alone."

"You don't find comfort in the company of others?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

The question took her aback. It suggested a harshness she hadn't yet come to associate with herself. Considering herself in that light was uncomfortable, but as she thought about her last few years as a servant in her Uncle's home, losing her sister to wedded countryside bliss, a profound loneliness settled in her stomach.

"I don't know," she said. "I've always wanted to be self-sufficient."

Benvolio nodded. "That can be a great strength. There's no joy or freedom in being beholden to the hand that feeds you." 

The bitterness in his words was not to be missed.

"You're heir to the most affluent estate in the city," Rosaline said, tempering her own irritation. "What freedoms could you possibly be lacking?"

Benvolio sniffed and he abruptly got to his feet. "My knees are sore," he muttered, stepping away from the altar. Rosaline got to her feet and brushed her skirt. She stood, unsure. He had closed himself off from her in a matter of seconds. She considered the cut of his jacket while she sought for the right words.

"I only meant that you have a title that protects you," she said. She caught her mistake the second his head turned.

"My title is meaningless," he said slowly. "My uncle assumed full command of the estate in my infancy. My cousin stands to inherit." He was fully facing her now. "Why my title? You outrank me. And surely my gender is the greater privilege at play."

Rosaline tensed. "I assumed you'd inherited the title from your father, I didn't mean to open a wound—"

"You were in the market buying groceries," Benvolio said, and Rosaline held her breath. "I've never seen you representing your house either. My uncle's never mentioned you in his tirades."

Rosaline became painfully aware of her scuffed boots, her fraying sleeve hem, and her cotton skirts. "My uncle is well-matched with my aunt and I don't care for formal occasions."

"You were alone at the station," he said, stepping closer. "And you got onto a second class carriage. I thought you were trying to avoid scrutiny."

Rosaline felt rooted to the tiles. "Not that it concerns you, but I don't like calling attention to myself, so I took the cheaper ticket."

Benvolio was close enough to embrace. His eyes were dark in the candlelight. "Rosaline, did you lose your title?"

She took a half-step back and felt the spell over her body break. 

"This was a mistake." Her body moved without command and she tore away, heels clacking as she rounded out of the transept and down the flight of stairs. 

"Wait!"

His footsteps clattered in time with hers, a distorted duet that echoed from the wooden rafters. He was right behind her. She skipped several steps and slid precariously on her narrow heel as she landed. Benvolio's hand gripped her elbow roughly to steady her, then grabbed her other elbow as he too found his balance.

"Let go of me this instant—"

"You don't have to go—"

The loud creak of a door stilled them both. Between the columns, a small rectangle of light spilled out from the far side of the aisles. Rosaline's hands gripped his forearms. 

"Ben—"

"The crypts!"

They tumbled down the short set of stairs, headlong into the crypt that extended below the choir seating. Benvolio took her hand and lead her along the row of pews into a side chamber. They stood out of the light, hearts hammering, and waited for their breath to still.

Rosaline pulled her hand from Benvolio's. She hugged her arms, first for comfort, then to keep them from shaking.

"What are we doing here?" _Why are you still here?_

Benvolio stared at her. "We couldn't risk being seen."

Rosaline paced in lieu of a response. Benvolio took a cautious step toward her.

"Did you? Lose your title?"

A familiar steeliness settled around her shoulders, dulling whatever fragile blossom had been growing since the train station. It was the same feeling she had when she took on the snides and insinuations of the other servants, the ones she'd always shielded Livia from. Feeling nothing was a skill you could practise and wear like armour. If she was going to lose him, and whatever this was, it had to be done now. 

"I was taken in as a servant when my parents died. It was considered a kindness." The last word had a sour twist, but his response caught her by surprise.

"What? By your _uncle_?"

She shushed him with her hands, glancing out at the main crypt chamber. 

"What era does he think this is, the Napoleonic Wars?"

"It was my aunt's influence," Rosaline said, drawing in closer and lowering her voice. "There was nowhere else my sister and I could go. There was no choice."

Benvolio's expression was determined. "There must have been a legal recourse, a will. Your parents' estate? Surely you could not have been left so unprotected."

Rosaline shook her head even before he was finished. "You can't understand this situation."

"Your ties to the Capulet family, your father was the second son, there must have been allowances tied in with estate—"

"Women don't inherit!" Rosaline hissed. "There was nothing left for us. The law gave the estate holdings to my uncle and the titles were dependent on ownership. Employment was the only thing saving us from the streets."

"But it's heartless! He should have cared for you!" 

It was the moment Rosaline would return to for the rest of the night, long after she'd finished her servant's duties and gone to bed, long after she'd stared out the window, unseeing, unable to sleep. He was so sincere. Tried as she might, she couldn't find an ounce of false empathy in his wide eyes. And he spoke the sentiments she had felt herself for years, and had never dared give voice to. She had been so close to believing that she'd deserved what had happened.

At her bewildered look, he drew back, an internal flinch that cast his eyes to the ground. "Forgive me, it's not for me to speak on your affairs."

"You don't need to apologize," Rosaline said quietly. 

"No, you're right. I can't pretend to understand your world."

"It's doesn't come easy to me either," Rosaline said. "But you're... kind. To care as you do."

The look in his eyes was timid and a tad suspicious. 

"Kindness is the mark of a good man," Rosaline added, thankful for the dim light.

Benvolio was quiet for a long time. "I don't remember the last time anyone considered me a good man. Sometimes it feels like I tarnish everything I come into contact with," he admitted.

"It would be presumptuous to claim that level of power," she said, smiling. It was a small smile, but it was enough.

A distant chime from the bell tower made Rosaline inhale sharply.

"I have to go, I'm already late."

"Rosaline." His thumb brushed his coat quickly, a nervous gesture. "I'd like to write you another letter."

She would not have denied him any request. "I would like that."

He smiled. "Good. And..." 

He stepped forward and gently took her hand in his. Slowly, he lifted her hand to his lips, eyes watching her carefully. Finally, he closed his eyes and gently kissed her fingers. Rosaline stood transfixed, her whole body coming alive at his warmth. He drew her fingers to the side of his mouth and let them linger there, softly leaning into her. She could feel the bristles of his beard through her gloves. When he lowered her hand, he looked up with a fragile hope.

"I understand better the risk you took to see me," he said. "I'm glad you did."

"So am I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let me tell you about the layout of the San Zeno benedictine abbey.
> 
> The basilica ("churchy part") is a cross laid west-to-east, where west is the entrance portal for visitors, and east is the **central apse** , also called the presbytery, which is the pretty bit you see in pictures of churches (and has the main altar). The north and south transepts branch off close to the eastern end, and create the cross you see when you look at the floor plan.
> 
> Now an abbey, or monastery, has a [complex and particular set of passages](http://www.timeref.com/life/abbey5.htm) surrounding a courtyard that extends usually to the south of the basilica (because it's sunnier and warmer). The [San Zeno abbey's courtyard](http://www.sacred-destinations.com/italy/verona-san-zeno) actually lies north of the basilica, which is less common but not unusual. The first link will show you a lot of very helpful terminology and the second will give you San Zeno-specific info and a 3D GoogleMap image.
> 
> Thanks to travel sites, professional photographers and _so many tourists_ , you can pretty much recreate the abbey even without a floor plan.
> 
> [Photo 1](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2c/Verona_Italy_San_Zeno_DSC08204.JPG), stairs descending from choir to nave (ground floor), and down to crypt. Most helpful for this chapter, since these are the stairs they're running down.
> 
> [Photo 2](http://www.planetware.com/photos-large/I/italy-verona-san-zeno-maggiore.jpg), view of choir above and crypt below, along with the pretty blue vaulted ceiling of the central apse.
> 
> [Photo 3](https://www.tripadvisor.co.za/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g187871-d246501-i77165820-Basilica_di_San_Zeno_Maggiore-Verona_Province_of_Verona_Veneto.html), crypt stairs again, slightly better angle, plus loads more pictures to choose from. Enjoy your _de facto_ tour of San Zeno!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're put off by tense family interactions, take extra self care steps before starting this chapter <3

_Dear Rosaline,  
I can't step into the abbey without thinking of you. Even when I'm alone, I feel comforted by the memory of your presence. It's a respite from the tensions that have been running here as of late. My uncle, of whom I've spoken little, has taken it into his mind to expand his interests in civic construction..._

 

_Dear Benvolio,  
The days here rotate predictably. Today is laundry day, which means twice the workload for me. Sometimes I imagine the look on your face, what you would say, if you heard some of the things my aunt says at dinner. I suppose being a servant excuses me from the pressures you must be facing..._

 

_Dear Rosaline,  
Your letter keeps me company in lonely times, but it's a poor substitute for the wit and grace you wear. I would give anything to see you again and talk about things that have nothing to do with Verona. If only we were not so constrained by the times we live in. I imagine a life 100 years from now. It must be a place of endless summers..._

 

_Dear Benvolio,  
Your words put me at a loss of what to say. I'm not used to kindness that isn't two-faced, and I've learned to see the worst in any gesture. Sometimes I think it's a skill that cannot be unlearned--at any rate, not while I am part of this house. My room was searched again, I'm sure of it, but your letters are safe. I envy your capacity to dream..._

 

Benvolio read the letter again and again in the mid-morning light. Barely two days old, the letter was already softening at the crease marks, letting through pinpricks of light when he held it up to the sun. It hadn't left his sight since its arrival.

His feelings were becoming an untamable thing that was mocked by the prose in his letters. He wanted to give a shape to it, would have done so in marble or bronze in a heartbeat, but he was limited by the unfamiliar medium of ink and fountain pens. Words didn't blossom in his mouth like they did in Romeo's, nor did he have Mercutio's ability to create enticing realms out of falsehoods.

Perhaps his approach was holding him back. He couldn't weave his feelings into a tapestry, but he could speak plainly and honestly.

He tucked Rosaline's letter into his hidden shirt pocket, and pulled a fresh piece of paper toward him.

 _My dearest Rosaline,_  
_You would not envy my dreaming if you knew what images haunt me every night. Your hair unravels in my hands. Your eyes undo me. Your lips...  
Yesterday I thought I saw a glimpse of your scarf in the streets. I looked for hours only to be mislead by an ever-widening spectrum of blues, violets, purples. You've given my colourless world a rainbow and I'm forever reaching to be worthy of you. A single touch would release me from my torment_

"What the blazes are you doing in here?"

The letter disappeared under a sheaf of papers like a snake in the grass. He swallowed, let the heat in his eyes cool, let his passion temper into a solid. He wouldn't chance his uncle's gaze otherwise.

"Historical study," he said, remaining in his seat. He hated to be at a different height when his uncle wore that expression, but it was in his best interest to appear as unruffled as possible.

The open book on the desk was snatched up, then dropped heavily with a sneer. The ink glass jumped.

"Art. The great fool's pursuit."

"Changes in artistic expression as a response to unification," Benvolio countered. "The historical study thereof." He dabbed at the fresh ink splotches on the pages with blotting paper. They were old sketches, laid out as easy bait. He didn't mourn them.

Damiano grunted and moved to the table that dominated the library. "The things you need to learn won't be found in your books. Any fool can pay a book binder to print his journal."

_And yet you're hell-bent on appearing in its pages._

"History in books is dead, forgotten. The present _lives_ ," Damiano slammed his hands on the wood, "and it lies unfolded, here."

A sweeping gesture took in the piles of paper before him. The centrepiece was a large map, the map, of Montague Estates and its holdings. Recent expansions had necessitated additions, drawn on separate pages and laid overtop, held in place by small, weighty heirlooms. As fascinated as Benvolio was by spatial relationships between lines, he was always struck by nausea when he looked at it. He felt trapped and crowded by the neat squares.

His distaste must have shown on his face. The air around Damiano twisted like wrought iron.

"For God's sake, that you wear the family name is an embarrassment to us all. Stand, nephew. It's time you showed a little of the intellect you claim to have. You recognize this?"

Benvolio felt a sourness settle in his teeth as he crossed to join his uncle. 

"Land."

"Yes. _Land_. Grimaldi land. Ruspoldi land. Ultimately lost due to one universal constant, the uniting quality of the fair gentry." A pleased grin. "Greed." 

Benvolio stiffened as his Uncle dropped a hand on his shoulder.

"Centuries of work trickling through fat fingers because they refused to embrace the spirit of modernization and invest. Generations of ownership fumbled because the fat cats had lost their claws. Are you hearing this, nephew?"

Any response would be met the same. "Yes."

Damiano pushed off and strode around the library, hands accentuating his speech.

"Industrialization! Machination! One multisyllabic word and these lords shrink in fear and watch their titles fade to dust. No initiative to implement the technology that would save them. Lord knows there's no push back from the peasants that are left."

"How lucky for us that you are a slim cat with sharp claws and a solid grasp of linguistics," Benvolio said drily.

"You may quip but this is not a time for the faint of heart. Strength and sacrifice may have served the crowns of old, but the future belongs to cunning and opportunism."

A corner of the map caught Benvolio's eye. One small plot of land had been outlined heavily, separating it from the larger tract carefully labeled "Capulet". He blinked away the image of Rosaline praying at the bye-altar. _Bad business dealings._

"And what will you do when all of Verona's agricultural industry is under your purvey, uncle? Wage war on the paper mill?"

It was never easy to predict what would be the final straw, what step would take him outside the bounds of the spatting that made up their only discourse. He'd learned young that the boundaries shifted depending on any number of things beyond his control. It rarely took him longer than an hour to breach them.

He could never guess when enough would be enough, but he always knew the moment when it arrived.

There was a barely a flicker in Damiano's eyes.

"Like pearls before swine."

His stroll had reached Benvolio's desk. Idly, Damiano looked at the sketches, pushing the pages aside. Benvolio felt the room lurch as he started forward, but Damiano had already lifted a piece of paper with curiousity. Hot lead shot through Benvolio's stomach as the familiar lecherous expression appeared on his uncle's face.

"Study?" Damiano asked, holding up the page. It was covered in nude sketches, Renaissance curves inexpertly captured, attempted over and over. Benvolio scanned the drawings wildly, relief and shock caught in his throat. Damiano tossed the sketch onto the desk, from where it floated serenely onto the floor.

"If your prick is all you deign to think with, then your prick is the only thing of use to me. You meet with Minola's daughter tomorrow. Make a good impression, if you can."

"I cannot promise you what you expect—" Benvolio started, still off kilter.

"I expect nothing, nephew. I predict, with great accuracy." The threat in his eyes pierced the room. "You may believe you've lost much, but there is so much still left to take."

Benvolio's eyes flickered to Rosaline's hidden letter, and he nodded mutely. His uncle smiled suddenly, tautness snapped, and the tyrant became a businessman once more.

"It's a game," he said, passing his nephew to leave the room. "Don't overestimate your value as a pawn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was indeed—as it appears to have been everywhere—a massive loss of estate and power in the upper classes at the turn of the 20th Century, most commonly blamed on the gentry's [epic mistrust of new farming machinery and techniques](http://www.brepolsonline.net/doi/abs/10.1484/M.RURHE-EB.4.00087), and a lack of adaptability to changes in power-structure after the unification of Italy in 1861.
> 
> The feudal land system disappeared, and land was redistributed and subdivided among heirs so much that the plots became unprofitably small. The livelihood of many families was lost. The work shortage got so bad that millions of farmworkers, "peasants", [left the country](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_diaspora) in a massive migration called the Italian Diaspora. More on the economic history of Liberal Italy [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economic_history_of_Italy#Liberal_Italy:_1861-1918).
> 
> On top of that, the Roman Catholic Church had very little love for the new government, led by the first King of Italy, leading to a [pretty fractured country](http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/modern-world-history-1918-to-1980/italy-1900-to-1939/italy-in-1900/) by the time WWI rolled around.
> 
> It's not difficult to imagine an ambitious family like the Montagues rising to prominence in the confusion, much like other family-based organizations did around this time.
> 
> There is in fact a [paper mill](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fedrigoni) in Verona, which contributed a lot to its economic power at the time (though I can't find the source where I read that sometime during my three-hour economic history binge).  
>  
> 
> Damiano's a dick! Leave a comment! <3 Now that we're nearing the end, perhaps you'd like to posit a theory as to where the story's title comes from?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splitting this final chapter into two to accommodate its length. :)

Like all her peers, Rosaline had been trained from early childhood for the world of aristocracy. She’d learned table manners and proper social etiquette, and took her duty as the eldest daughter seriously. It was later that she learned the other lessons that came from the invisible rules.

She learned how to smile to people she disliked, or her family disliked, or who disliked her family. She begun to think of it as a dance, one that combined grace, speech, poise and razor-sharp wit. It was never a chore to mask her true feelings. It was how things were done.

After her parents’ death, the dance had changed. Now she was permanently on her toes, weaving carefully between her role as a servant and a bearer of the Capulet name. It was on these proverbial toes that she made her way to her uncle’s study. She’d been summoned directly by Peter. Any issues within the household were her aunt’s purview and it didn’t bode well that this intermediary step was being skipped.

She knocked on the door.

“Yes, come in.”

Silvestro Capulet was at his desk, head bowed over a sheaf of paper. It looked to be an ongoing and difficult process, if the glass of wine and haphazard piles were any indicator. There was no aunt or manservant to set the tone of the meeting, so she curtsied, unsure. Silvestro glanced up and waved his hand dismissively.

“Rosaline, as I’m sure you appreciate, our… familial relationship is somewhat unconventional.”

“I appreciate it acutely. Sir.”

“No, I think we can dispense with ‘sir’ for this conversation. This is a family matter.”

Rosaline stood, stiffly. This dance had been the most difficult one to learn. Becoming a servant had been a change, but that world was simple. Task-oriented. Being a Capulet now held all sorts of murky surprises, and Rosaline hated surprises.

Silvestro rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, then spoke matter-of-factly.

“Rosaline, it has been brought to my attention that you have been receiving a significant number of letters from the abbey. A friar, Friar Lawrence…?”

She kept her face impassive, her hands still. Silvestro gave her a wary look. He seemed out of his element.

“Of course, who you choose to write to is your affair, but I feel it my duty to ensure… That is, I thought it prudent…”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said, curtly. It was the wrong tone. If Livia had been there in her place, she would have been gently confused, or concerned, or some other less defensive emotion. Rosaline knew she was not that soft.

“If only that could relieve me of my worry.”

“I don’t understand.”

His discomfort was now palpable. “This marked interest from the abbey generally follows one of two possibilities, both of which I find deeply unsettling. Of course, choosing to become a sister of the cloth—”

“The cloth?” This was not going where she had anticipated.

“Joining a convent has always been a respectable, noble, pursuit for young, er, virtuous women.”

“Become a _nun_? Uncle, I have no interest in a life of religious study behind cold walls.”

“I’m afraid that rather confirms my second theory,” Silvestro said, sadly. “Oh, I really wish you had been more careful.”

An uneasy feeling began in her stomach. The brief show of fatherly concern was soon replaced with cool efficiency.

“Seeking guidance for such a sin is, of course, natural and would explain the secrecy. We will have to move quickly to make up for lost time. You’ll be relieved the matter is no longer in your hands.”

The penny dropped like a boulder. She placed her hands on the table. “Uncle, you’re not suggesting—”

“We will need to arrange a wedding as soon as possible, of course. On many things I may have let you down, my niece. Your… placement has always weighed on my conscience. But you are a Capulet, and whoever the father is, he will take responsibility. On that, I can assure you my support.”

Now she was frantic. “Uncle, you’ve greviously misinterpreted this. I am _not_ with child!”

“Do not concern yourself with what the families will say, there will always be gossip. We will announce an engagement following a covert courtship. We can deal with those that spread malicious rumours.”

“Does my version of the truth count for nothing here?”

Conte Capulet leapt to his feet, chair clattering behind him. “Enough! We are past the point of pandering to misplaced morality. The sooner we can legitimize this scandal with an engagement, the less damage the Capulet name will suffer.”

Rosaline’s hands balled to fists. Her nostrils flared. “Of course! In all this, you choose to think of the name.”

“I am lord of this House,” Silvestro said, coolly. “I have been charged with a duty of care toward this estate, and I will not let a harlot ruin centuries of reputation with a careless dalliance!”

The words ripped through them with the crack of a heavy branch breaking from a family tree. She knew her face was the mirror of his, that their blood and temper came from the same source. She knew, and did not waver in her conviction.

“Thank you, uncle,” she spat, “for making yourself clear. If I have besmirched the great House Capulet, then I’ll not burden it with my presence any longer.”

“Leave now and I will not protect you! Rosaline!”

The door slammed behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "Only" by RY X. It's heartbreakingly perfect,
> 
> Everyone deserves love and respect from those they love! A Merry Christmas and holiday season to you all! <3

Benvolio closed the door to his chambers and leaned against it heavily. He let his lungs fill until they sagged. He closed his eyes while he came back to himself. 

Minola's daughter had been... sweet. Fair, quiet. He had taken her for a chaperoned walk in the park, although _Conte_ Minola had embraced modern spirit enough that the chaperone had followed a fair distance behind them. 

They had spoken about Verona, their favourite spots in the city, various activities that filled their days, pets their families had owned. He'd seen a brief spark when she championed her favourite pastry shop, divulging a secret she'd been keeping from her family. It was... cute, a small streak of rebellion that gave Benvolio hope for her future. Which would most certainly not contain him.

He just couldn't. She was too young, if not in age then in some intrinsic quality he couldn't define. Of course, she was lovely and would be the picture of gracious hospitality in any home. But he couldn't imagine her a fighter. It seemed wrong, to match himself with someone so fresh and untroubled.

Of the four parties involved, he could tell he was the only one who saw it this way. Minola himself was sided with his uncle, of course, while the bride-to-be had not seemed disgusted by Benvolio and would likely be happy to get the issue of her betrothal settled quickly. 

Even now Minola was probably celebrating, his daughters teasing each other... Benvolio hated disappointing people.

A plink from his window caught his attention. He waited. He was about to dismiss it when it happened again. Benvolio stood by the drapes, waited for a third pebble to glance harmlessly off the glass, then swung the window open.

"What the devil do you want, Mercutio?"

"Benvolio?"

Rosaline's voice was hushed, her form pressed flat against the wall. Benvolio reached forward as far as he could. He could just make out a ringlet of hair in the streetlight that stretched through the estate gardens.

"Rosaline," he murmured. Then, "My god, what are you— Wait, I'm coming down—"

"No, wait—" 

But Benvolio had already withdrawn and hurtled out of his room. He took the servants' stairs to the side door and crept around the house to where she hid. He beckoned her toward the deeper shadows of the topiaries. She went to him swiftly, huddling out of the light.

"Hello," Benvolio said, breathless. His hands flexed but he kept them at his side. "I've been missing you—"

"Benvolio, I'm leaving."

Now he saw her flushed face, heard the uneven draw of her breath, saw the bag she clutched tightly in her hand. 

"Leaving where?"

"Here, I'm leaving Verona."

"Wait—"

A light went on in a nearby window and Rosaline shrank further into the hedges. Benvolio joined her, and placed a hand on her arm. She was trembling.

"Rosaline, what happened?"

"It doesn't matter, I can't stay."

"Rosaline, please tell me what happened—"

"My uncle thinks I'm pregnant or joining a nunnery. All those letters from the abbey, he couldn't come up with another explanation for them. I can't tell him the truth and he won't believe otherwise. I'm leaving tonight."

"Tonight, that's—" _Too soon_. "Take a few breaths. We can talk this through, we can come up with a plan together."

Rosaline was shaking her head. "It won't help. I'm ruined. I tried so hard to make sure—" She ended with a yelp for air as tears pricked her eyes.

Benvolio pulled her into his arms. Her hands clutched at his frame and he held her firmly, muttering soothing words into her hair. It occurred dimly to Benvolio that he'd been dreaming about this moment for weeks. He had created elaborate fantasies with roses and sunsets and rumpled bed sheets, each of which was now a dismal second to the reality of holding a woman in a scratchy woolen coat, on a damp night, while prickly branches poked through his shirt.

It ended as abruptly as it started, Rosaline straightening and sniffing away tears.

"You can't leave," he said quietly.

"I have no choice."

"I can protect you. Trust me—"

"I do," she said with a pained smile. 

"We'll find a way out of this, we can hide you—"

"I want you to come with me."

Benvolio stared at her. "What?"

"I want you— I want us to leave together. You're good and loyal and—" She stopped, gathering courage. "I trust you, more than anyone else I know. Come with me."

Seconds passed as the full meaning of her proposal sank in. Benvolio went to speak but couldn't. He felt splintered. For a crazed instant he felt the urge to flee, even as his heart pounded and his face flushed. As his mouth opened and closed, Rosaline's face flashed fear, then bitter disappointment.

"You won't." 

The words fell like a guillotine. Benvolio took her hand, defiant.

"I want to. Rosaline, you cannot doubt that. But I've never been responsible for someone before. My whole life, I've never been good enough for that."

"You are to me," she said, fiercely.

"What if I fail? What if I let you down?"

"No matter. We'll fail together."

Benvolio gave her a long look and placed a palm gently against her cheek. "Do you want this, Rosaline? Are you certain? Because I will follow you anywhere if you are. I'll leave with you tonight if that's what you want—"

Rosaline kissed him, banished his last doubts with impossibly soft lips. Benvolio sank into their wilderness with a shaking relief. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her and wound his fingers deep in her hair. She sank into his embrace, and he felt his fears earth themselves harmlessly through her touch.

Her hands gripped his shirt, even as their mouths tore apart for air, foreheads resting together. They swayed gently as if carried by a warm breeze. For a timeless moment, they were whole.

"I've wanted this for so long."

"I know."

"I will go with you," he said. She took his promise with another kiss. 

Benvolio floated on air as he returned to the house for his things. He climbed the stairs in a fugue state. He arrived in his room, eyes trying to make sense of surroundings that felt strange to him. What amidst all his possessions did he need to bring? He grabbed things haphazardly. Clothes, money, paper, charcoals, pens, pencils. A shaving kit, more clothes, a heavy coat. Some photos. The rest he left in disarray, clasped his suitcase shut, and turned his back on his life.

He ran down the main stairs, steps echoing loudly. He had torn open the front door and was through before lightning struck.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Damiano appeared in the doorway. The thin smile on his face slid off and onto the stone ground as he saw Benvolio's suitcase and coat. 

"What is this? Nephew?"

 _Run_. Benvolio's feet were rooted. He didn't answer. Damiano took a step forward as the silence drew any remaining levity from his stance.

"Benvolio. Go back inside." 

"No, uncle."

"Benvolio, you will _go back inside_ —"

"I'm leaving, uncle."

Damiano snorted. "Are you, now? Where to, pray?"

"I'm leaving," Benvolio repeated. 

"For god's sake, nephew, you're engaged."

His legs had turned to stone. "No, I'm not. I didn't get the chance to tell Arabella myself, so you'll have to do so on my behalf. Please give her my sincerest good wishes."

" _You will come back inside this instant!_ "

"Father?" Damiano turned and Benvolio could see Romeo alighting at the bottom of the stairs. "Ben? What's going on?"

"Romeo, this is between me and your cousin, you can go—"

"Ben, are you leaving?" He had joined his uncle in the doorway. A full head shorter, and so young. Only mild confusion marred his sweet face. Benvolio's heart twisted.

"I'm in love," he said. The words had welled up without forethought and they hung in the air like a shield. "We're going together."

Romeo beamed at him. "Is this your friar, then?"

"What do you know of love?” Damiano sneered. “The only affection you know is paid for! What _puttana_ have you enlisted in your schemes?"

Benvolio growled and lunged forward, but was stopped by a surprisingly strong grip. Rosaline was by his side, every inch the lioness in the golden porch light.

"He's not worth it," she said, disgusted. "He's not worth the dirt on your shoes." 

Benvolio gripped her hand tightly.

"We're leaving," he said again. "You can take my name, my money, my heritage. God knows you already have. But you can't take my love for her, and you can't take our future." 

In any number of worlds, it would not have worked. But Benvolio's words struck at a deep, secret part of his uncle's heart. Damiano looked at his nephew, strong and grounded, and saw, for the briefest moment, his older brother. And, for the briefest moment, he felt how much he had missed him.

Benvolio knew his uncle better than anyone, and felt something give way. _You are to me._ It was going to be okay.

His voice softened. "Romeo, I hope you can forgive me—"

"Get on, then, you fool," Romeo said, grinning. 

Benvolio laughed then. Rosaline tugged gently at his hand, and they turned to leave the estate.

"Nephew!"

Benvolio didn't turn.

"Her name, at least."

It was Rosaline who turned and answered, and therefore Rosaline who saw the look on Damiano's face.

"Rosaline of House Capulet," she announced. "I believe you knew my father."

They walked to the train station in silence, clasped hands buried in Benvolio's coat pocket. A light rain had started and their steps quickened. Moisture pearled on Rosaline's scarf, and Benvolio wiped her face in wonder with his finger tips.

"So, my dearest," he said, and she chuckled softly. "Where to?"

"Venice," she said without hesitation.

"Okay. Venice."

It would be a world without coronets and heraldries, without pearls and strawberry leaves. It would be new, and it would be theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _puttana_ \- wh*re
> 
> pearls and strawberry leaves - in a coronet, the silver balls are called pearls, while the three leaf-like shapes that often appear between them are called strawberry leaves. A coronet differs from a crown, which from what I gather must have arches on it. This link is a really cool and thorough [historical guide of crowns and coronets](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/A_Complete_Guide_to_Heraldry/Chapter_22).  
> I found the phrase while I was looking into Italian nobility and I loved the imagery of it, so vibrant and luxurious. Of course, in the story, it represents everything Ben and Ros are being restrained and controlled by, either greed to get more pearls and leaves, or arrogance from having them.
> 
>  
> 
> Finishing a work has to be among the most terrifying things for a creator. I'm sure I'll look at this in a week and lament all the paths I didn't take with these two. I've never completed a multichapter fic before, and Rosvolio has grown pretty close to my heart. I hope you like the send off I've given them. We'll get one last glimpse of them in the epilogue.
> 
> To everyone who's taken this creative journey with me, you're all _wonderful_. Your comments and support have lifted me and continue to inspire.
> 
> Spread the love to other writers and readers <3 I definitely will.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year's Eve! Give 2017 a kiss goodbye, wish it well on its way... Stay kind for 2018 <3

The wedding party was small, but the tiny civil registry office still struggled to accommodate the maid of honour and the two groomsmen. Livia had sent a series of exclamatory telegrams after receiving the wedding invitation, and periodically wiped away tears as her sister stood before the officiant. Romeo’s smile was so wide his face could barely contain it, and Mercutio was strangely reserved throughout the ceremony. All three attendants wept and cheered as Benvolio took Rosaline’s hand in his and they shared their first kiss as husband and wife.

The day ended in celebration as only the newly freed can express. They ran along the Zattere promenade with sparklers and banners, feasting on _vino_ and _wanda_ until the early hours. Rosaline laughed as she hadn’t in years, and Benvolio spent more time on his friends’ shoulders than on the ground. It was a night of elation. The weights they had been dragging had been suddenly released, springing them into the skies under a shower of golden sparks.

\---

Romeo sat in the train carriage, resting his head against his rolled up jacket, watching the scenery go by. He was alone, as Mercutio had stayed on a few days in Venice to catch up on acquaintances. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being alone. It was quiet, without Mercutio’s constant chatter, and somehow less solid, without Benvolio’s calming presence.

He hadn’t thought about it much, what would happen if one of them got married. It was hardly a risk with Mercutio’s antics, and Benvolio had perhaps poorly hidden his budding romance (no one but no one got that kind of look after receiving a letter from the abbey), but had never given any inkling that he would leap into a married life given the chance.

He couldn’t imagine love to be so transformative, so all-consuming. Rosaline was lovely, of course, perhaps a bit sharp-tongued. She was certainly a great match for his cousin. But to throw away everything that was familiar, every comfort of living, every brotherly tie, just on a chance? 

The door to his compartment opened abruptly. A young woman wrestled her luggage halfway inside before she looked up.

“Oh! Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. How rude of me!”

Romeo stared. “Oh, no, it’s no bother. You can… join me...”

“Are you sure? Only this bag is so heavy, it’s a miracle I’ve dragged it this far.”

Romeo leapt to his feet and hauled ineffectually on the suitcase. The young woman threw her weight into it, heels sliding on the wooden floor. Finally, it slumped into the compartment with a thunk and landed awkwardly against the bench.

The young woman bit her lip. “I was abroad for a year,” she explained. “I never could pack light.”

Romeo nodded mutely. Long brown hair cascaded over her coat from underneath a blue woolen beret. She hooked one curtain of hair over her ear and gave him a smile that changed his life.

“I’m Juliet,” she said.

“Romeo.”

She smiled again, then seemed to be expecting something further. Dimly, Romeo took a step back and gestured to the bench.

“Would you like the window seat?”

She shuffled past him gratefully, the floor space ruthlessly taken up by her luggage, and collapsed somewhat clumsily by the window. Romeo closed the compartment and sat next to her, then shuffled a few inches away, then back an inch.

“Oh, your coat?” Juliet pulled a balled up blazer from under her leg and shuffled toward Romeo to free it. “Here.”

Romeo took it and tucked his hands under it absentmindedly, feeling her warmth bleed through her coat into his ribs. They sat for a moment quietly, occasionally smiling at each other. She really was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Blushing, Juliet said, “The way you’re looking at me…”

“Oh, I didn’t mean…”

“No, no. What are you thinking?”

Romeo rested his head back against the cushions. “Just marvelling at how sometimes the stars align.”

She gave him a skeptic look. “Stars?”

“Well,” Romeo said, slowly. “It’s not every day a sun walks into your life.”

“A sun,” she repeated, hiding a playful grin. “You’re quite the poet, aren’t you?”

Romeo grinned widely and settled in for the rest of the train ride. It was going to be a very good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _vino_ — wine  
>  _wanda_ — these are bowtie twists of fried dough, covered in powdered sugar. They're commonly found at Italian weddings, and I like to think a _pasticceria_ (patisserie) would carry them for our renegade wedding party.
> 
> Planning on getting legally married in Venice? You will need [many documents](http://flyawaybride.com/fab-guide-legal-wedding-in-italy/).
> 
> It is done, my dear friends! _Pearls and Strawberry Leaves_ is officially done, and it serves as my Rosvolio swansong. To everyone who's commented (or will), it's been a pleasure interacting with you. I wish you all a benevolent 2018 with challenges you rise to meet, and lots of feel-good TV along the way. 
> 
> All my love,  
> Apfelessig


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